


Finding Home

by ruffaled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Flashbacks, James "Rhodey" Rhodes Feels, M/M, Memories, Minor Character Death, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Repressed Memories, Sam Wilson Feels, Sam Wilson Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 18:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15824688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffaled/pseuds/ruffaled
Summary: The world is ending. Again. And after being on the run for three years, as an internationally wanted fugitive, Sam Wilson finally gets to go home.





	Finding Home

**Author's Note:**

> "Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition."  
> ― James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room

When Cap tells him to take them home, something weighs heavy on Sam’s chest. He can’t pinpoint what it is exactly but the sensation makes his breath come out shallow and his heart beat erratically. After spending three years on the road, sleeping in cheap motels, eating stale food and driving run-down rental cars on empty dirt roads in the countryside, Sam thinks a lot about the word ‘home.’ He wonders what that word should mean to a fugitive like him, long after he throws away the last vestiges of Samuel Thomas Wilson — the young kid from Harlem, who turned his back on God and became an Avenger.

Once the Quinjet is on autopilot, with a course set for upstate New York, Sam takes out a rosary bead necklace from his pocket. It’s the only thing he has on him that once belonged to his father.

***

Paul Wilson had hoped for Sam to one day follow in his footsteps and become a minister. But that thread was cut short one night when Sam and his father encountered a brutal gang fight on their street while they were returning from church. Without hesitation, Paul had hurried out of his car and approached the brawling gang members. Words were exchanged, voices raised, threats made, and the still Autumn evening had ended with the thunderous cracking of gunfire.

Nine-year-old Sam was still buckled in his seat, with his nose pressed against the rear window, and small fingers gripped on the door handle tightly. The brawl had ended with three bullets in Paul’s chest and a pavement decorated with dark red. It took Sam’s mother, Darlene, more than a week to get all of the blood off the concrete. At Paul’s funeral service, the priest told the congregation that God worked in mysterious ways. Sam, seated between his brother Gideon and baby sister Sarah, quietly gasped for breath with a blocked nose and a puffy pair of eyes. He refused to look at the priest or at the giant cross behind him. At that moment, Sam decided that he hated God.

***

Sam holds the rosary beads tightly in his palm and closes his eyes. He doesn’t pray, but he thinks about his father, the lessons he used to teach him every Sunday afternoon after he returned from the morning service. Be kind, his father used to say. Be compassionate. Love generously, even when it hurts. The words echo in Sam’s ears as he puts the rosary away and takes out a burner phone. He dials the number and waits.

“Ma, it’s me. Sam—I’m fine. I just—I miss you,” he says as his grip on the phone threatens to slip. He knows the others on board can hear him, but they stay quiet and he appreciates the silence. Darlene’s voice is heavy and she asks the same thing that she always did since Sam fled the country. “I don’t know, Ma, I want to come home but you know I can’t—I am sorry, I miss you and I love you but I—I gotta go. Take care of yourself, okay, I’ll come back soon. I promise.”

When he puts the phone away, Steve sinks into the co-pilot seat. Behind them, they hear Widow admonishing Wanda and Vision for being careless and letting their guards down. Steve offers him a protein bar. They had been rationing those for a week, and Sam’s forgotten the last time he has had a proper meal. He accepts the bar gratefully and chows it down in a few big bites.

Steve waits until Sam has a mouthful of food when he asks, “You okay?”

Sam stares. The question is loaded; he knows Steve’s fishing for the faintest trace of guilt or remorse, refusing to accept Sam’s reassurances that he would’ve followed Captain America into the jaws of death one way or another. They’re a team, they’re friends, they’re fami—Sam looks away. They were a family until everything they had, everything they were fighting for, crumbled to dust. Sam looks away. “You call him, yet?”

“He knows we’re coming,” Steve says. He reaches forward and presses a reassuring hand on Sam’s knee. “He misses you.”

There’s a pregnant pause between them until Sam unbuckles from the seat and stands up. “Mind taking over? I’m gonna try and get some shut eye before we land.”

Steve nods.

***

Sam first heard about Captain America’s heroics in sixth grade History. The teacher almost had tears in his eyes narrating the tale of how Steve Rogers went from a parading showman to the man who single-handedly saved the Western hemisphere from destruction. Years later, after college and a series of odd jobs, when he joined the Air Force, Sam found the reverence with which he grew up hearing people speak about Captain America was non-existent. He learned quickly what the Air Force thought about Army.

When Sam eventually mastered the ropes of hero-worshipping in the Air Force, he discovered two names that were uttered everywhere with equal reverence: Captain Carol Danvers, commander of the Alpha Flight Space Program, and Colonel James Rhodes, a former jet pilot and the owner of the War Machine armour. Riley, his training partner, was hopelessly in love with the  _idea_ of Carol Danvers, because no one in their unit had ever seen her — “Santos said he heard a rumour that she’s half alien, man. Imagine that! An alien in charge of our space force, I’m in love!” he used to say.

“We’ve never even seen her. What if she’s all hype and zero substance?” Sam would drawl, earning himself a cuff behind the ear by his outraged teammate. “Besides, have you  _seen_ Colonel Rhodes’ armour? It makes Iron Man look like a childish sidekick.”

Sam met Rhodey for the first time when he and Riley were set to test the EXO-7 Falcon armour. It was a Stark Industries prototype, personally designed by Tony Stark. Rhodey was there both as a liaison officer for all of Stark’s non-weaponized inventions for the military and because of his familiarity with the tech.

The test runs started with a few glitches here and there, but things _really_ went south on their fourth attempt. The gears on Sam’s wings were stuck, sending him into freefall. His body was arched back almost into the shape of a downward parabola and attempts to contort it back under control were futile. The ground was getting closer and closer in his visor goggles. A rush of cold air entered his lungs, his chest felt like lead — it was getting harder to breathe. His heart thrummed restlessly: Beat. Beat. Beat. The beating rang staccato in his ears, growing faster and faster out of rhythm. Sam felt drowsy. His body was entering hypoxia and, with a rare burst of clarity, he knew that was going to be the end.

He was going to die in a training accident. The Air Force would mourn his death for day or so, however long it took to bring on a new recruit. Then, he’d become a distant memory. A thousand thoughts came to his mind at the same time: He wished he had time to say his goodbyes; thank Ma for raising him right, remind Sarah and Gideon to stay out of trouble, and leave his vinyl of  _Trouble Man_  with Riley. He closed his eyes and started humming, “ _I come up hard baby, but now I’m cool—I didn’t make it sugar playin’ by the rule—_ ” Sam stopped when a pair of firm metallic hands wrapped around his chest and broke the fall, pulling him back up into the air.

“You okay, Wilson?” Rhodey’s voice floated through the comms channel as Sam wiggled in the suit’s grasp, trying to wrap his head around the situation. He was not dead. He didn’t crash. Someone— _War Machine_  caught him. Sam had avoided the clergy like a plague after his father’s death, but at that moment, hovering a few hundred feet in the air, he was ready to sing Hail Marys for James Rhodes.

Later that night, Riley wouldn’t stop teasing him. “Dude, your face was priceless. You looked like you were about to kiss War Machine’s helmet when he caught you.”

Sam didn’t have the energy to flip Riley off, but he dreamt about free-falling. Every time, War Machine was there to catch him.

Years later, when Sam ran into Steve Rogers on the grounds of the Washington Monument, he had lost most of his boyish enthusiasm for Captain America. In its place was an irreverence instilled in him by his fellow Air Force colleagues, most of whom had many bold, and daring, things to say about the Captain crashing a plane into a block of ice up North. But, to Sam’s surprise, Rogers was friendly, and there was something about him that just screamed _loyal_. Sam’s hunch proved right when Rogers showed up one day at the VA office and spent the evening with Sam’s patients. They became fast friends, and that friendship eventually took Sam into the world of superheroes, death cults and unkillable assassins. After Riley’s death, he swore never to put on the Falcon wings again. It didn't feel right, but stopping the premeditated murder of millions made it necessary.

That summer, Sam scored himself an invite, courtesy of Steve, to an evening bash at Stark Tower and, for the first time in years, Colonel Rhodes was back on his mind.

The party was exactly as he had expected: Extravagant with all of Stark’s wealth out on display. He found himself a safe spot by the pool table, watching the veterans Steve had invited squabble over the 8 ball. When the scuffle looked like it would end up in three 80-year-olds trading blows, Sam stepped up to intervene, but someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Sam Wilson?”

He turned, slack-jawed, and almost dropped his drink. James Rhodes looked older than Sam remembered; he had less hair, more specks of grey in his stubble, and his eyes bore the marks of a man wise with experience.

“Hey,” Sam said, extending a hand. “I didn’t think you’d remember me. It was a while ago.”

Rhodey shook his hand. “Ten years—time flies, huh? I’m sorry about your partner. Riley, right?”

Sam nodded. He followed the other man to the centre of the Stark’s penthouse where they found empty seats. Sam noticed a tall, blond man in a red overcoat next to him, pouring  _something_ from a small canister into the glass in his hands. When the man caught Sam staring, he smiled and said, “I would offer but you see, this mead was aged for a thousand years in barrels made from the wreck of Gronhill’s fleet. It is not _meant_ for mortal men.”

“Right, Sam, meet Thor,” Rhodey said, interjecting. “Thor, this is Sam Wilson, former Air Force and Steve's friend.”

Thor offered a hand, and, when Sam shook it, he felt every bone in his hand quietly rearrange in the other man’s grip. But Thor’s attention quickly shifted to the other party guests.

Sam turned to Rhodey. “Thor? As in, _the_ Thor? The ones that the Vikings used to worship?” Rhodey nodded. “Jesus, y’all are really into this super friends thing, huh?”

“Technically, you’re a superhero too,” Rhodey pointed out. “From what Rogers told us, you kicked ass out there, buddy.”

Sam blushed and looked down at the empty glass in his hand. “Uh—yeah, nah, I helped. But it was Cap who stopped Hydra. And they put him in the hospital too. That was a first.”

“Sam.” Rhodey levelled an honest look at him. “You more than helped. If this is a line of work you’d like to consider, I’ll talk to Tony about having the Falcon suit upgraded with more tech. You’ll need it.”

“You think I should? I mean—I’m just a pararescuer. You were the Air Force’s best pilot, and Cap saved millions. Natasha _is_ a super spy, and I—I’ll be a liability next to all of you.”

Rhodey snorted. “Well Tony was a businessman, who didn't know how to punch to save his life when he started. I had to teach him all that. Steve couldn't take two steps without coughing up a lung. He needed special steroids to become Captain America. And Widow— she started when she was 14. That's different." Rhodey clapped Sam's shoulder and grinned. "And, for the record, I was always the  _second-best_  pilot because Danvers was just something else entirely. You’ll fit right in.”

At that moment, Sam caught Steve’s eyes from across the room. Part of the reason why he agreed to come to Stark’s party was to discuss the ‘missing person’s’ case with Cap. He had been chasing cold leads on the elusive soldier, Steve’s old wartime buddy who helped to nearly destroy the world, for months and Sam was confident that he was closing in on making a breakthrough — he caught whiff of some social media chatter claiming a man with a silver arm was spotted inside a Hungarian wet market. Steve needed to know. Sam nodded and got up.  

“Just think about what I said,” Rhodey said after they shook hands. “You’d be a good addition to the team.”

Exactly a week later, when the dust around Ultron was starting to settle, Sam called Rhodey. “I’m in.”

***

Sam wakes up to slight turbulence and a stiff lower back. The inside of the Quinjet is dim, and he makes out Wanda and Vision, huddled together in the corner, holding hands. Steve’s still behind the controls and Widow’s taken over the co-pilot seat. The sky outside is a shade of pink and blue with dawn’s approach as they fly east.

The anticipation builds in his chest as he reclines in the makeshift bed. His thoughts are scattered — Sam’s tired of running, he wants to go home and have a nice, warm bath to scrub away the grime, and the stench of betrayal, from under his skin. He misses a lot of things about the Compound, things that he once took for granted: Like the soft goose down comforter on his bed, ideal for all weather, or the fresh, floral fragrance in the living quarters, sprayed at intervals, or the lazy team breakfasts in the kitchen nook looking out to the fields.

More so, Sam misses the subtle looks he and Rhodey used to exchange at team meetings, the knowing smirks, and the kisses they stole in empty corridors whenever they could. Sam remembers every contour, every ridge and bump, every erogenous zone on Rhodey’s body, like a map, and he misses the soft, supple skin under his touch and the coarse trail of hair moving south. Some nights, Sam aches for the way Rhodey used to feel, writhing under him. His taut body pulling and pushing and moving in tandem with Sam’s. The way the column of Rhodey's neck used to arch up in the throes of pleasure and the iron grip of his fingers digging into the skin on Sam’s hips, and the gentle sighs that rolled from between swollen lips.

Sam shivers. There’s no time left to reminisce. They barely managed to fight off aliens who want to kill Vision, and they’re minutes away from entering hostile territory where they’re still wanted fugitives. He wonders if Rhodey would arrest them on sight and toss them back into the Raft and throw away the keys. Or would he do nothing and destroy Sam with a look of disappointment, and disgust, that he dreaded for months.

Sam isn’t sure if he’ll ever be ready to face Rhodey again, the fate of the world be damned.

***

Their first training session as a team was gruelling — Cap started at dawn and spent hours beating them into shape with circuit training, and Widow pushed them hard on improving teamwork. By late afternoon, Sam was splayed on a fitness mat, and he felt like he was seconds away from a heart attack. Next to him, Wanda looked ready to burst into tears, and, a few meters away, Rhodey was kneeling on the floor, cupping a hand over his mouth to keep the contents of his stomach down. Vision, the only one who wasn’t sweating all over the floor or panting like a dog in the summer heat, was reporting his calculations on the team’s potential strengths and weaknesses to Steve and Natasha. Rhodey looked up from the floor and grumbled.

“Damn teacher’s pet,” he muttered in Vision’s direction. His remarks drew a quiet laugh from Wanda and Sam said, “Hear, hear.”

That evening, Sam wandered around the Compound for the first time since moving in. After spending most of his life in a two-bedroom apartment in Harlem or a studio in D.C., the extravagance of his new accommodation was a culture shock. His bedroom was the size of a decent apartment in the city, and it came with an attached office, and a walk-in closet. Sam had moved in with just a trolley backpack.

When Sam walked into the common area, someone said, “You look like you could use a map.”

Rhodey sat on one of the elongated sofas, holding up a newspaper, but his eyes were fixed on the television airing CNN. The anchor recited about the formal investigation that the United Nations had launched, looking into the destruction of Sokovia, to determine if the Avengers were responsible. The screen switched between the anchor, some shaky footage from the Avengers' fight with Ultron, and Tony Stark arriving outside the U.N. headquarters.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, nodding at the television.

“The usual,” Rhodey said dismissively. “The U.N. is trying to remind everyone that it’s still here. Don’t worry about it, Tony’s got a team working on it. We’ll be fine.”

“Doesn’t really sound like things are fine,” Sam pressed on as he moved to sit next to Rhodey. He pointed at the front page of the newspaper in the other man’s hand. “You really think they can pass a law to control us?”

Rhodey flipped the paper and scanned the headline. He shook his head. “Nah, they’ll try but it’s not gonna happen. Uncle Sam won’t let it happen.” Sam believed him and from then on, they fell into a friendship of convenience that turned into something more before either of them realised.

It happened when Sam accidentally discovered that Rhodey suffered from sleep terrors. He had gone down to the city on a weekend, and by the time he slipped back into the Compound, it was close to midnight. The living quarters were dark and empty. Sam tiptoed down the hallway towards his room when he heard the muffled cries coming from Rhodey’s room. He paused in his tracks and hovered outside the doorway for a few minutes before quietly pushing the door open.

Rhodey was sleeping on his side by the edge of the bed. His blanket fell on the floor and he was shivering as the air conditioner pumped cold air into the room. “No—please, not him. Let him go,” he begged, jerking his head back. “I can’t—no, please, no let him go, please,  _please_.” Sam knelt by his side and nudged Rhodey. “Hey man, it's just a bad dream. Come on, wake up. Rhodey—” It took more prodding before Rhodey jerked awake, blindly groping at Sam.

“Breathe, Rhodey, come on. That’s it, just breathe,” Sam said, rubbing his back. “You’re here and you’re safe.”

They sat with their knees almost touching while Rhodey recovered in silence. Sam pretended he didn't hear the hushed sniffs or notice the constant tapping of feet against the bed frame. From his experience with other veterans, he knew Rhodey would tell him about the nightmares when he was ready.

When Sam got up to leave, Rhodey reached for him and whispered, “Can you stay?”

It became a routine for them. Every night, Sam turned left down the hallway and into Rhodey’s room. He held the other man in his arms through the nightmares and in the mornings, he pinned Rhodey down on the mattress and mapped out reassurances on on his bare skin. If Steve or Natasha knew about their arrangement, they never said anything.

Sam never bothered to put a label on what he had with Rhodey. He thought that defining the relationship, calling each other boyfriends or partners, would cheapen what they shared. Rhodey was 15 years older and had a string of exes he never talked about — Sam was convinced Rhodey had something going on with Danvers for a while when he discovered a tattered photograph, of the two of them together, in the other man’s wallet. But he never pried. One day, when Rhodey was ready, he’d tell him.

In the end, the Accords blindsided the Avengers in a way neither Steve nor Stark had anticipated. For all their disagreements and their bickering, Rhodey paid the ultimate price for their reluctance to compromise—and then he had left Rhodey behind and didn’t look back. Sam spent nights sitting in cheap motel that smelled of bad beer and weed, staring at the burner phone in his hand. He had Rhodey’s number memorised but he never called. “It’s too risky,” Widow used to reassure him. They kept tabs on the teammates they left behind: Steve used to obsessively scan the internet for news on Stark but he was always left disappointed. After word got out about the attack on the Raft, with Ross emphatically declaring Captain America a terrorist on every national network, Stark fell out completely from the public eye. He was barely spotted out anymore. Sam tried to keep tabs on Rhodey. Like Steve, but perhaps more so than him, Rhodey was also a national hero and his recovery was being watched closely.

Once, Sam spent an hour watching a documentary on Rhodey’s career. When the credits rolled, he almost gave in and called the other man. After that, he stuck to scanning the internet for sightings of Stark and Rhodey — until, one day, Rhodey was sudenly on the front page of every major news outlet. “War Machine back in action!” the headlines screamed. For the first time since they left the Compound, Sam sank to his knees on the dirty, carpeted floor of his room and cried when he saw a picture of Rhodey in a pair of prosthesis,  _walking_.  

Eventually, Sam started writing letters to Rhodey. He never sent them out but it was cathartic. He found himself pouring everything in his head into words that filled page after page of inexpensive motel notepads. He carried those letters with him wherever they went, promising himself that one day, he'd find the courage to post them. The last thing he wanted was to implicate Rhodey in Ross’ international manhunt for Captain America and his allies. _Excuses and more excuses_ , a voice in his head sneered. _You know you could’ve saved him but you didn’t want to, did you?_

***

Sometimes Sam still dreams about the fight they had in Germany. In his dreams, Vision always finds his mark and turns him into a glider, but the scales on the wings come loose and he falls freely until a pair of firm, metallic hands grip under his arms and pull him back up in the air, breaking his fall. Every time. Waking up from those dreams is the worst part because the tightness in Sam’s chest, and the thrumming of his heart against his ribs, is a sharp reminder of where he failed. He should’ve been faster, should’ve tried harder, he should’ve caught War Machine when he was blasted out of the sky. Like he should’ve caught Riley.

Sam closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. He can sense someone’s hovering over him, and he lies immobile for a second to see if they’ll go away. When they don’t, he opens his eyes. Widow’s staring down at him, arms crossed and her expression unreadable. She gives him a look over and says, “We’ve entered New York. You’re up.” She doesn’t linger. Sam appreciates that.

After he freshens up, Sam takes over the controls from Steve. As they approach the Compound, a SHIELD agent radios in for identification. They’re allowed to land on the Helipad number two. They walk down the familiar hallway towards Rhodey’s office; Sam feels like he's marching to his own execution. He will be judged and found guilty for his crimes, his complicity, his—he catches Widow staring at him. They’ve fallen behind Steve, Wanda and Vision.

“Look," Widow sounds firm. "Stop thinking about the past. We can't afford to, not right now. There's fight coming and we need to stop the end of the world, so, buckle up, soldier. 

Sam leans against one of the corridor walls and smiles, tight-lipped. "Thanks. I'm fine, let's go."

When Sam sees Rhodey, he forgets to breathe. Vision’s leaning on him, and Wanda’s hand is lightly placed on his back, and he’s pretty sure she’s channelling her magic on him because he feels oddly calm. He watches Rhodey blow off Ross, shake hands with Steve, and hug Widow. He notices how well the blue t-shirt fits him, outlining the firmness of his shoulders and the curvature of his pecs. Rhodey is practically glowing and Sam wants to walk up to the other man and hold him, tell him how sorry he is—for not coming back, for not calling, for everything. But he stays by Vision’s side, avoiding Rhodey’s eyes.

“Well. You guys really look like crap. Must’ve been a rough couple of years,” Rhodey says, looking pointedly at Sam.

Sam tries hard to look for the hurt, the bitterness, the disgust in Rhodey’s tone. But he finds none. The weight in his chest lightens just a little. “Yeah, well, the hotels weren’t exactly five star.”

Rhodey smiles. Sam forgets to breathe again, but this time for another reason.

***

Sam’s on the Quinjet, checking the flight manual before the trip to Wakanda, when Rhodey approaches. Steve’s on the line with T’Challa while Widow and Wanda oversee a junior SHIELD engineer assess the damage to Vision’s body.

“You’re avoiding me,” Rhodey says, leaning to the side on the ramp.

Sam sighs and sets down the manual. He knows he has delayed the confrontation long enough, and he steels him for the inevitable — the anger. The disappointment. The disgust. When he turns, Rhodey’s walking towards him, his braces echoing in the cockpit. Sam steps back until his spine presses into the control wheels.

Rhodey gives him a look-over, his gaze resting on the bruise under Sam’s left cheek. Sam, pointedly, looks at the ‘JARVIS is my co-pilot’ sticker on his right, avoiding the other man. It occurs to him for a second that the Quinjet is stolen property; it belonged to Stark, but it was never reported stolen. He feels exhausted, and the nap earlier did little to soothe the aching, bone-deep tiredness in him.

“It’s—good to see you on your feet,” Sam says. It sounds halfassed, insincere and Sam slams his palm on the flat surface of the main instrument panel. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“How long are you gonna pretend like you don’t need help?” Rhodey asks, without missing a beat.

“I don’t—”

“Bullshit,” Rhodey cut him off. “When was the last time you got a good night’s sleep?”

Sam snorts. “Not a luxury I could afford, thanks to your pal Ross.” He knows it’s a cheapshot, it’s unfair, but Rhodey’s backing him into a corner. The closeness between them feels suffocating, and Sam’s torn between wanting to push the other man away and running as fast as his feet can carry him, or kissing Rhodey. “I don’t need help.” Sam hates the lack of conviction in his words.

***

The mission sounded straight-forward on the briefing document: A patrol squad was stranded just outside Kandahar, drawing heavy fire from nearby insurgents. Two of their members were injured from stepping on a landmine. Sam and Riley would swoop in, grab the wounded soldiers and return to base before Army sent in backups for the rest of the squad. “Easy-peasy,” Riley said, doing a final check on the calibrations of his Falcon wings. “See ya on the other side, Wilson.”

Sam didn’t remember the details afterwards, only Riley’s bone-splitting scream ringing in his ears through the comms as a fireball exploded on the ground, engulfing the other man completely. Sam felt the scorching heat under skin and the edges of his uniform were singed. Seven soldiers, including all six members of the patrol squad, died on that mission, Sam later learned. It was a premeditated ambush that their intelligence had failed to catch.

Sam waited a week before he cleaned out Riley’s locker and shipped the belongings back to his family. He kept the newspaper cutout Riley had of Captain Danvers being congratulated by the President before her maiden voyage to space. Riley would’ve wanted him to have that.

It took the Air Force three days after Riley’s funeral to stick Sam with a new partner for the Falcon project. The new guy was young, reckless, and nearly broke his spine on the first test run. Sam tried to show the newbie the ropes around base, just like Riley had done with him, but he could never tune out his partner’s dying screams everytime he took the wings out to the field.

Sam lasted another two months before he was given an honourable discharge from the military and the Falcon project was suspended indefinitely. Gideon found him a studio in D.C., hoping some time away from New York — Riley grew up in Queens — would do his brother good. Sam moved in and rarely left the apartment in the first six months. He ate the same food for months — a tuna melt for breakfast, a burger for lunch and chow mein for dinner. He always over-tipped the delivery guys. Sam still had expired milk in his fridge from the first night that Gideon stayed with him. There was also mouldy cheese and rotten vegetables that he no longer had the energy to throw away.

Sarah and Gideon showed up unannounced one morning after Sam failed to return their calls for more than a month. They found the apartment in a complete disarray — clothes were scattered on the floor, sandwich wrappers and weeks-old takeaway boxes stacked on the dining table and layers of dust on the furniture. The living room smelled like fresh sewage. In the middle of all the chaos, Sam was slouched on the sofa, looking ten pounds heavier, staring blankly at the television. His siblings immediately got to work: Gideon carried Sam straight to the bathtub while Sarah rallied their cousins to drive down and help clean the apartment.

Sam ended up at a counsellor’s office a few days later when Gideon drove him there. He spent the first session in silence, mind fluttering back to the ball of fire and the piercing scream of a dying man. On his fourth session, Sam asked his therapist, a former military man, “Why do you do this?”

“Because if I listen to everyone else’s problems, I don’t have to deal with mine,” the therapist replied candidly. The next day, Sam signed up to train as a counsellor.

***

“I should not have run." Sam eventually forces himself to meet Rhodey's eyes up close. He feels undeserving of the warmth and compassion that he sees in them. Part of his _wants_ to see the anger, the bitterness, the blame. But the other half wants to lean in, more than anything. “When Cap came, I didn’t know if you wanted to see me anymore. After everything, I just—”

“Are you really that dense? Did you really think I would’ve let all of you rot in jail?”

Sam flinches when Rhodey takes his hands and entwines them with his own. “I didn’t know what to think.” A firm hand presses lightly on the side of his neck and Sam feels humiliation singe his skin until words bubble at his lips. Suddenly, he can’t stop speaking. “I thought I lost you—should’ve caught you, Jim. Should’ve caught Riley. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Come here,” Rhodey says, voice commanding, and Sam is unable to refuse anymore. He leans in, buries his face against Rhodey's neck, smelling the warmth and a hint of cologne. Rhodey feels safe in a way the Avengers never did and Sam holds onto his every word, as if they are his absolution. “You need to stop blaming yourself for this. Yeah, things got out of hand, but this wasn't on you. This wasn't on anyone, all right?" Sam nods, childlike, and lets his weight shift and rest on the other man. He closes his eyes and lets Rhodey's voice be his guide for a moment. "Breathe, Sammy. You're here, that's all it matters.”

“I am sorry,” Sam mutters. He hates the tremble in his voice. “I am sorry for not calling. I’m sorry I didn’t come back—”

Rhodey's hands crawl up to the back of his head, gentle and soothing. “Ssh—It doesn’t matter. You’re home.” Sam believes him. The heaviness lifts from his chest, and, for the first time in years, Sam feels like he can breathe again.

He  _is_ home.

**Author's Note:**

> The Sam Wilson in this fic is a combination of MCU Sam, 616 Sam, and a fair bit of creative licensing. This was beta-ed by the ever generous, and ever patient, [@starkravinghazelnuts](http://starkravinghazelnuts.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much for catching all of my atrocious grammar mistakes and lack of punctuation, and for suggesting really great edits! 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [@ruffaled](http://ruffaled.tumblr.com). All mistakes in this fic are mine. Thank you for reading!


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